The car rolls into the layby, unnoticed in the darkness, and grinds to a halt on the dirt. She is crying at the wheel. Perhaps she knows what she is about to do is wrong, but for her, so far as she can see, there are no more options. This is the only avenue they have left her with.

In the back, her daughter starts to cry. It is late, she should be in bed. She is confused and tired, cuddling a shivering rabbit on her lap. Her mother rubs her face. They will rest soon. All of them.

She clambers out of the car, hefts the gas can, spins off the lid. The pungent liquid splashes across the hood, the roof, the seats. Her daughter's cries grow louder as the fluid strikes her and the fumes fill the car. As she climbs back in, the gasoline soaks into her coat and trousers, the smells stings her eyes. She takes her daughter's hand. She closes her eyes. She strikes a match.

This is the story of Fiona Pilkington and Francecca Hardwick.